


Epilogue

by illwick



Series: Unwind [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Bratty Sherlock, Captain John Watson, Chair Bondage, Chair Sex, Consensual Kink, Couch Sex, Deepthroating, Dom John, Dom!John, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Exhibitionism, Face-Fucking, Food Sex, Forced Orgasm, Greedy Sherlock, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Kitchen Sex, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Power Dynamics, Prostate Massage, Rough Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sensory Deprivation, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Table Sex, Top John, Vibrators, Voyeurism, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 11:50:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9656309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: John and Sherlock unwind after a case.  What it says on the tin: Just five rounds of kinky porn.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This piece could be viewed as an Epilogue to the events of my "In Between," series, but it also stands alone as an Epilogue to S4. I usually write porn-with-plot, but then this pure porn vignette came at me out of nowhere. It was inspired by whoever the illustrious minds are behind the @ContactSH and @ContactJHW Twitter accounts, bless them.

It's a little after 8:00 a.m. when they finally wrap up the case. Lestrade had the perp in custody and, in an act of extreme benevolence, agreed to let John and Sherlock come by the Yard at a later date to fill out the required paperwork, instead of attempting to make them do it in their current state of exhaustion. John, for his part, estimated that he'd at least squeezed in about 6 hours of sleep in the past 48 hours, but Sherlock hadn't slept a wink.

That said, John couldn't help but notice Sherlock's agitated state as they sat in the cab on their way back to the flat. He was still practically vibrating with energy, no doubt strung out on the adrenaline from the high-speed chase on the commandeered motorbike that had led them across the city in morning rush hour. He was jiggling his left leg nervously, hands clasping and unclasping, clenching and unclenching as he wiped his palms on his trouser legs. He was pointedly avoiding John's eyes. He was craving a cigarette. John didn't have to be a genius to deduce that.

John reaches into his pocket and presses the speed dial for Molly. She answers after the first ring.

"Oh, John! Please don't tell me you're coming to get Rosie! I've just got her all packed up and planned a whole day at the zoo, we're just heading out the door--"

"No, no, not at all," John interrupts. "We're wrapping up the case here, but there are still a few loose ends. We might be a few hours more. Think you can keep her until this afternoon? Around 3 or 4?"

"Of course, no trouble at all, John!" Molly chips.

"Cheers, Molly, you're a godsend. See you around 3, I'll be by to pick her up."

"Sounds good. We'll send you pictures from the zoo!"

"Cheers."

John hangs up and sees Sherlock is staring at him.

"What?"

"Why did you do that? Lie to Molly? We're going home now."

"I know, but I figured maybe we could...unwind. Like...like we used to. If...if you're still...into...that."

Christ. While his ability to communicate with Sherlock has improved exponentially since they rekindled their romantic relationship a few months ago, there are still certain things that John finds he doesn't quite have the vocabulary to address yet--namely, sex. And what types of it he'd like to be having.

It's not that he and Sherlock don't have a satisfying sex life. They do. God, more than satisfying, if he's honest. Of course, there are nights when they make love like an old married couple, missionary-style between the sheets, professing their love in hushed whispers so as not to wake Rosie. And there are times when their encounters are quick and perfunctory--Sherlock surprising him with a blow job in the shower before John leaves for the surgery, rushed hand jobs on the sofa during Rosie's afternoon nap, or (John's personal favourite), a quickie in the kitchen with a hidden stash of lube they've taken to keeping behind the olive oil, John taking Sherlock hard and fast over the counter as Sherlock's knuckles go beautifully white while he struggles to maintain leverage. They've explored dozens of new positions that John had never even fantasized about in his wildest dreams (usually at Sherlock's insistence), and John was beginning to suspect that Sherlock had been doing a fair amount of extracurricular research on the internet on days when he wasn't on a case (there seemed to be a strong correlation between days John left the flat with Sherlock yelling "BORED!" as he closed the door behind him, and days that he'd arrive home to have his bones jumped by a very horny and overeager detective).

But that said, there were certain things they hadn't resumed, this time around. Since the Fall and Sherlock's return and Mary's death and their subsequent reconnection. There were...games they'd play, back before the Fall, toying with the dynamic between them, and memories of those games would occasionally rise to the surface and John would find himself hot and bothered despite getting more than enough action for a man his age.

John now knows that type of game has a name: _Power dynamics._ He'd looked it up on the laptop he kept at work while using the WiFi from the Starbucks next door, and as he clicked through the articles, it explained a lot about certain sexual encounters that he and Sherlock had back before the Fall.

There had been times that Sherlock demanded John tie him up. Times that John had gripped Sherlock by the hair and had his way with him while Sherlock fell pliant and obedient beneath his unrelenting hands. Times that Sherlock submitted entirely to John, letting John take him roughly, holding Sherlock in place, forcing him to surrender. Times that they'd have post-case sex marathons, John fucking Sherlock until Sherlock could barely move, so blissed out and subservient he'd go hazy-eyed and quiet. Sherlock seemed to lose himself entirely during those encounters, and now John couldn't deny that he reflected upon them with unrepentant lust. 

But back then, before the Fall, John hadn't thought about it too hard. Hell, he hadn't thought about any aspect of their relationship too hard; total avoidance and denial was key to maintaining the unspoken agreement they'd come to. So they never talked about it. Never discussed what it was that they were doing. Never discussed why they were doing it. Or why they both needed it so much.

This time around, things are different. He and Sherlock are talking, truly communicating. About everything. Except...except sex. Because it seems they're doing just fine at that--why rock the boat?

But here, in the back of this cab, John sees the telltale signs that Sherlock is too wound up, too desperate for a way out of his head. And luckily, the reading he's done on the internet all seemed to confirm his initial suspicions: that Sherlock, while dominant in his professional life (and frankly, in his personal life, the way he attempted to push John to do his bidding--to varying degrees of success), was undoubtedly submissive in his sex life, and may benefit from exploring that power dynamic in the bedroom.

So now John's gone and proposed it out loud. He waits for Sherlock's response.

There's a hitch in his breath. A dilation of his pupils that John couldn't miss, even from the other side of the cab. His legs and hands go still.

"Yes. Yes, I think that would be...good. That would be good."

"Alright, then," says John, smiling at him warmly. He takes Sherlock's hand and presses it between his own. Sherlock relaxes into the seat.

The moment they walk through the door of their flat, John does't hesitate. If he does, he knows he'll question himself--what they're doing, why they're doing it, whether it's right, whether their relationship is healthy enough to withstand it. So he doesn't let himself pause. Instead, he reaches out and grabs Sherlock by his hair, and pulls him forcefully to his knees.

Sherlock folds without a fight, the tension leaving his body instantly, like a puppet cut from its strings. He stares up at John through glassy eyes as John unfastens his own fly and shoves his cock unceremoniously into Sherlock's mouth.

John is unrelenting. There are times when they do this slowly, softly, with passion and eye contact and gentle caresses-- but this is not one of those times. John twists his fingers into Sherlock's hair and holds him still as he thrusts forward, ignoring Sherlock's whimpers and moans. But Sherlock is still certainly participating--he' swirling his tongue and parting his lips, angling his head to take John as far down his throat as possible. 

John's orgasm sneaks up on him. In circumstances like this he used to always pull out and come on Sherlock's face, but there's no time for that--by the time he realizes what's happening, he's released himself down Sherlock's throat with a grunt, and Sherlock is swallowing and sucking in slow, steady pulls. John's knees feel weak.

He pulls away and tucks himself back into his pants. Sherlock kneels before him, trousers tented obscenely, shaking slightly, face flushed with arousal. John leans down and kisses him deeply, tongue probing his mouth, then stands again.

"Lovely. Now, go shower." Sherlock gets unsteadily to his feet and begins to make his way to the bathroom, looking slightly lost.

John's then reminded of some of the "Dominant Partner Etiquette" he's read about online over these past few weeks--things he didn't do before, he didn't _know_ to do, things he should do to enhance the experience for both of them.

First, give clear instructions.

"Sherlock, look at me."

Sherlock stops in his tracks and looks back at John over his shoulder.

"I want you showered and ready in 7 minutes or less. Be in the sitting room naked before then. And no touching yourself."

"Yes, John."

John has to bite his tongue to keep his jaw from dropping; Hell, when was the last time Sherlock agreed to _anything_ without a fight? He would outlive God trying to have the last word!

But instead, Sherlock just turns and shuffles into the bathroom, shucking his clothing in the hallway as he goes. A shiver runs down John's spine.

But there's no time to dwell on this turn of events. John hastily sets about collecting everything he'll need. 

He goes to the kitchen and pulls several dish towels out of the drawer and dampens them, then sets them out on the coffee table. Next, he heads to the bedroom and opens the drawer of their bedside table. He grabs the bottle of lube and the vibrator (a gag gift from the lot at the Yard they'd given to Sherlock as a prank--he and John had tried it once years ago but couldn't stop giggling, but something tells John today will be different), then rummages fruitlessly for the handcuffs. Unable to locate them, he pops his head into the bathroom, which is thick with steam from Sherlock's shower.

"Oy, have you seen the--"

"Mrs. H has the handcuffs. You'll have to get creative."

"How did you know what I-- No, wait, why does Mrs. H-- You know what, never mind." He shuts the door behind him and attempts to shake any thoughts of what Mrs. Hudson needed the handcuffs for out of his head.

He returns to the bedroom and heads for the closet, resigning himself to some improvisation. He grabs two of Sherlock's thicker leather belts and, in a last-minute decision, snatches his blue scarf off the peg by the door. He places his stash of goodies on the table by his chair and sits down to wait.

It's not long before he hears Sherlock's footsteps in the hallway. As he steps into the sitting room, John's breath catches in his throat.

Sherlock is _beautiful._ He's always beautiful, but sometimes John's so caught up in the insanity of everyday life that he forgets to appreciate just what a perfect specimen of a human being he's been given the privilege of copulating with. Standing naked and bare in the morning sunlight streaming through the sitting room windows, John can appreciate every muscle, every angle, every curve of his body. Sherlock is truly, unapologetically _gorgeous._

And John is going to _devour_ him.

John takes a deep breath and stills himself, trying to remember all the suggestions the Power Exchange websites had offered. Slowly, he rises.

He knows now's not the time for negotiation--not when he and Sherlock are already aroused and too far gone to think straight. So he'll stick to what they used to do all those years ago--but perhaps with a bit of a twist.

He picks up the scarf and two belts next to him on his chair. He approaches Sherlock and kisses him chastely on the lips, then shows him the three items in his hands. 

"Are these okay?" John asks gently.

"Assuming the belts are for restraining and not striking, yes."

John freezes. His mind flashes to the marred flesh of Sherlock's back, mangled at the hands of the terrorists in Serbia who held him hostage. Then, a flash of his own fist, striking Sherlock in the face until he collapsed, then driving his shoe into Sherlock's chest as he curled in on himself on the floor of the morgue as Culverton Smith looked on. John can't breathe.

"John? _John?"_ Sherlock's voice sounds like it's underwater, but John forces himself to push to the surface. He opens his eyes.

Sherlock is staring at him, eyes wide and innocent. "John, are you alright?"

"Yes, yes. Sorry. I." He struggles to stop the shaking in his voice. "I'm not going to hit you, Sherlock. Not today, not ever, even when we're...even when we're doing this. I won't ever hit you."

"Alright. Good." Sherlock's face is placid and peaceful, and John allows himself to relax beneath the gaze of those jade-green eyes.

John pulls himself back upright, to attention.

"Sit." He gestures to Sherlock's chair, and Sherlock sits without hesitation, placing his arms on the armrests. He's already anticipated what John will do--no surprise there.

John takes the first of the two belts and winds it around Sherlock's left arm and the metal frame of the armrest, pulling it until it's immobilizing but not restricting blood flow, then fastens it. He repeats the process with his right arm.

"Tight enough?"

Sherlock struggles futilely against the restraints. "Perfect."

"Excellent." John picks up the scarf and leans forward and ties it over Sherlock's eyes, noting Sherlock's slight intake of breath as he does so. It's the first time he's blindfolded Sherlock during one of their encounters, and he notes the flush that rises in Sherlock's cheeks as he secures the scarf in place.

He stands back to admire the scene. "Lovely. Lovely."

Without further hesitation, he sinks to his knees and swallows Sherlock to the root.

Sherlock's erection had flagged since he'd left for the shower, but it returns in record time as John works him over diligently. Sherlock is moaning and muttering under his breath as his hands clench the armrests of the chair, thighs flexing under John's hands as he firmly holds them down. In no time at all, John can taste the salty slick of precome as Sherlock nears the edge.

Without fanfare, John pulls away and sits back on his heels. Sherlock is unable to swallow the cry of protest that rises from his throat, and John grins cheekily to himself. He turns to the table beside his chair and fetches the bottle of lube.

The _snick_ of the cap elicits a moan from Sherlock, who spreads his legs wantonly as John looks on impassively, working the slick over his fingers. Then he hooks his arms under Sherlock's thighs and pulls him further down the seat of the chair, then presses his thighs back to his chest, exposing him to John completely. John presses one finger inside him up to the hilt as he swallows Sherlock's cock down his throat.

Sherlock wails at the sudden onslaught of dual sensations. His head tilts back, exposing his throat, pale and perfect and just begging for John to mark it up but no, no, there will be time for that later--for now John focuses on tonguing the head of Sherlock's cock just the way he likes it, applying alternating licks and suction the way he knows will make Sherlock moan, holding his finger steady and certain inside him--not even moving it yet. Sherlock's thighs tense and his moans become deeper and more gutteral, almost frantic. The moment John senses he has him on the edge, he crooks his fingers _just so_ and with a doctor's precision, presses against his prostate.

Sherlock comes, shouting at a volume that makes John hope to _God_ Mrs. Hudson kept her weekly appointment with her Bridge club in Camden, lest she call the police and report an attempted murder.

Sherlock finishes, but John's just getting started. He quickly withdraws one finger and replaces it with two and begins to scissor and twist them, prepping Sherlock with clinical efficiency. On one of the websites he'd read, there'd been a list of common Submissive Kinks, and among the many that he noted applied to Sherlock, "Overstimulation" was right at the top of the list. Sherlock had always loved to be fucked right after he'd come, and seemed to love it when John paid extra attention to his prostate in the wake of a particularly powerful orgasm. His refractory period was incredibly short under those circumstances, and John wanted to see how short he could make it.

Without pausing the ministrations of his two fingers, he turns and grabs the vibrator off the table. It's long but slim, and he withdraws his fingers just long enough to slick it up and slip it inside.

Sherlock's thighs begin to noticeably tremble with anticipation, and he lets out a low chuckle. 

"Oh, _John._ You are clever."

"No more talking."

With that, John flicks the vibrator on. Sherlock nearly jackknifes off the chair, and were it not for the restraints holding him in place, John's fairly certain he would have unseated the vibrator entirely. But as it stands, the restraints hold, and John is able to force Sherlock's right thigh up to his chest, opening him to the onslaught of the vibrations.

Sherlock's not moaning anymore, but he's making frantic pleading sounds through gritted teeth. His member is already swelling to hardness again, much to John's delight, and he angles the vibrator to stimulate his prostate directly.

"Jesus CHRIST!" Sherlock shouts, straining against the restraints.

"Nope, still just me down here. And what did I say about talking?"

Sherlock thrashes his head back and forth and whimpers, but John doesn't let up. Suddenly, without warning, Sherlock's back arches and he screams, coming again all over himself.

"Christ, Sherlock, that's got to be some sort of a record."

Unceremoniously, he withdraws the vibrator and tosses it next to him. He's suddenly aware that he's achingly hard himself, which surprises him considering his normal refractory time is a little over an hour, but seeing Sherlock in such a state seems to have done the trick. He quickly unbuckles the belts holding Sherlock's arms in place, and Sherlock slumps bonelessly in the chair. 

"Oh, no you don't. Not done with you yet." He pulls the still-blindfolded Sherlock off the chair and onto his knees, then spins him around and presses him face-first over the the chair, his chest and head resting on the seat. With military efficiency, he grabs both of Sherlock's arms and pulls them behind his back, so that Sherlock is grasping his own elbows.

"Stay." John commands. He wraps one of the belts around Sherlock's forearms, securing them to each other. Sherlock struggles slightly, but John tightens the belt and buckles it in place. John stands and strips off all his own clothes. Sherlock remains frozen obediently, trembling slightly in anticipation.

Without further ado, John kneels and places his left hand at the nape of Sherlock's neck, gripping his hair and pressing his face into the seat of his chair. His other hand grabs Sherlock's bound forearms for leverage. He thrusts inside.

Sherlock is tight and hot and slick with lube, but his body is pliant and utterly submissive in John's hands. John takes a moment to appreciate the gorgeous expanse of Sherlock's back. He recalls how it was years ago, when Sherlock's back had been an endless stretch of porcelain, pure and perfect. It's different now, covered in scars that tell the story of everything he endured in Serbia. Sherlock hates the scars; they make him self-conscious. John doesn't mind the scars. He secretly thinks they make Sherlock look ferocious and dangerous and untamable, which makes moments like this--when John has him completely at his mercy--even more satisfying.

John quickens his pace and Sherlock huffs out a bitten-off moan from beneath him, clearly overstimulated to the point of discomfort. John takes the opportunity to tighten his grip on Sherlock's hair and pull his belt-bound arms back so that Sherlock's limp body meets him thrust for thrust. The sight of his own cock disappearing into Sherlock's spent but perfect form is too much, and he comes in a release so powerful he feels he's turning inside out.

He comes to sprawled across Sherlock's prone body, and he takes the opportunity to plant soft, languid kisses across Sherlock's scarred shoulder blades. Gently, he peels himself off Sherlock's back and loosens the belt, returning Sherlock's arms to his sides, and removes the blindfold. Then pulls him back upright so that he collapses back against John's chest, still utterly boneless.

"Hey, gorgeous." John smiles down at him.

"Hi." Sherlock peers up at him, shy and demure beneath moist eyelashes.

"Was that okay?"

"Mmmhmm." Sherlock closes his eyes again.

"Ah ah ah, no, no sleeping yet. We've got to get you cleaned up. Can you stand?"

"Maybe." Sherlock leans forward and issues a sharp intake of breath as John pulls out of him and helps him to his feet. John grabs one of the damp dish towels off the coffee table and uses it to wipe Sherlock's come off of his chest and spent cock, then issues a quick wipe-down between his cheeks. 

"Alright, stay right there," John orders, then dashes to the bedroom to grab their dressing gowns. By the time he gets back, Sherlock is listing to one side dangerously, legs clearly about to go out from beneath him with exhaustion.

"Here." John wraps Sherlock in his dressing gown and guides him to lie down on the sofa. Sherlock goes down without a fight, and closes his eyes immediately. John turns to walk to the bathroom to rinse off, but Sherlock grabs his hand with cat-like reflexes, completely at odds with how utterly exhausted he seemed only a moment ago.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm just going to rinse off. I'll be right back."

"We're...we're not done yet, right?"

John grins, then leans down to kiss him. "Are you mad? I'm just getting started with you. Now, nap. You're going to need it. By the time I'm through, you'll be begging for mercy."

Sherlock smiles up at him. "Twice?" He asks hopefully.

"Twice," says John with a wink. Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes, and John makes his way to the bathroom.

After rinsing off, John allows himself a quick cat nap on the sofa, curled up next to a thoroughly passed-out Sherlock. He wakes about 30 minutes later, feeling slightly refreshed but intensely ravenous. He makes his way to the kitchen and assesses the situation.

It's not ideal. But they do have bread, and butter, and strawberry jam. He pops four slices of bread in the toaster and puts the kettle on to boil. Minutes later, he returns to the sitting room carrying a tray laden with toast, tea, and two pint glasses filled with water.

"Wake up, sleepyhead." He nudges Sherlock's foot and Sherlock jerks awake, looking adorably rumpled.

"What time is it?" 

"Relax. You've been out about an hour. I'd say you needed it."

"Hrmph." Sherlock looks unamused, but grabs one of the glasses of water and drains it.

"Eat up," says John, handing him a piece of toast. "You're going to need some fuel in you, trust me." 

He picks up a piece himself and makes quick work of it, then sips some of the tea. But when he looks over, Sherlock is glaring at his piece of toast with a salty expression.

"I'm not ready to eat yet."

"Sherlock, don't be difficult. You haven't eaten in two days. And if we're going to keep...doing what we're doing here, I can't have you passing out on me from low blood sugar."

Sherlock glares at the toast as though it personally insulted his mother.

John sighs. "Here, I have an idea." 

He turns, and settles so that his back is against the arm of the sofa, and spreads his legs.

"Come here."

Looking suspicious, Sherlock twists and leans back between John's legs into his arms, back resting against John's chest.

John pecks his cheek affectionately. "There we go. Now, get the lube."

Sherlock jerks back to look at him with a scandalized expression.

"What? It's not like I'm going to put it on your toast, Christ. I'm not going to make this weird."

Sherlock chuckles, a low rumble in his chest, and picks up the lube with his other hand. 

"Good," says John. He extends his right hand. "Toast, please." Sherlock hands it over. He extends his left hand. "Lube, please." Sherlock pours some into his awaiting palm. "Now open your dressing gown for me." Sherlock does. "Beautiful." John reaches forward with his left hand and grabs Sherlock's cock, which is already beginning to harden with anticipation. 

"So gorgeous, Sherlock." He kisses his neck. "I am so lucky. Now, here are the rules: I'm going to feed you this piece of toast. As long as you keep eating, my other hand is going to keep moving. You stop eating, the action stops too. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nods, his pupils now blown and cock twitching in anticipation. 

"Alright then, let's begin."

Sherlock is shockingly complacent. John works his cock with expert precision, using just the type of strokes he knows drive Sherlock wild, and Sherlock willingly consumes bite after bite of the toast as John looks on, murmuring encouragement and praise. In no time at all, Sherlock is leaking a frankly astounding amount of precome, and he's worked his way down to the remnants of crust.

John can feel Sherlock's abs tightening and his thighs contracting as his body coils itself in preparation of release. John doubles down on his ministrations, stroking him with persisting efficiency. Sherlock swallows the last bite of crust, and then turns his head to suck both of John's fingers into his mouth, licking wantonly at the jam that's dripped between his fingers.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, you're perfect, so gorgeous, beautiful, God, don't hold back love, come for me now."

Sherlock sucks John's fingers as deep as they'll go and then comes, issuing a high whine from the back of his throat.

John works Sherlock through it until he's utterly spent. John realizes he is agonizingly hard against Sherlock's back, and he's suddenly overwhelmed with the need to be inside Sherlock right the hell now.

He extracts his himself from behind Sherlock and lays him back against the armrest, then comes around to part Sherlock's legs and kneel between them on the sofa. He pushes Sherlock's thighs back towards his chests and presses two fingers into him.

He's still open from their last go-around. Without hesitation, John puts his hands on the armrest on either side of Sherlock's head, leaning over him, and pushes inside.

Sherlock grunts and tilts his hips up to give John easier access. John begins thrusting enthusiastically.

But Sherlock isn't meeting his eye. Instead, he's looking over towards the coffee table. The next thing John knows, Sherlock is reaching out towards the plate that's sitting there, still containing two pieces of toast. Sherlock's fingers stretch out, trying to grasp one of them.

John stops thrusting and pulls himself upright.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm still hungry. I'm getting more toast."

"While I'm inside you?"

"Well, I'm finished." He shrugs and reaches for the toast again. 

But there's a gleam in his eye that John recognizes all too well. It's a challenge. He's asking for John to take control. And John is _more_ than happy to oblige.

He grabs Sherlock by the wrist and pins his arm up above his head.

"Like hell you're going to lie there snacking like some spoiled brat while I'm fucking you. When my cock is inside you, _you. Will. Pay. Attention. To. Me."_ He punctuates each word with a brutal thrust.

Sherlock cries out and twists, but John's too quick for him. In no time he has Sherlock's other wrist pinned. Sherlock makes a half-hearted effort to plant his feet and buck John off of him, but John is already too deep inside for the leverage to unseat him. He struggles futilely, and John rises to the challenge, forcing him down and pistoning into him with renewed enthusiasm.

It's done the trick. Sherlock cries out with wanton abandon, completely consumed as John plunders him. He thrashes weakly under John's command, and John's vision seems to go white at the edges as he gazes on the way Sherlock's muscles flex gloriously with the effort. Sherlock stretches out his neck, long and pale, inviting the onslaught, and John leans down to feast.

John sucks hickeys the length of his neck, the suction turning to harsh bites every time Sherlock struggles in an attempt to get away. Finally, all the fight seems to go out of Sherlock, and John can feel every muscle in his body relax beneath him. It's surrender.

John sits back and lets go of Sherlock's wrists, grabs his hips, and fucks Sherlock back onto his cock with brutal efficiency. Sherlock's eyes are wet and hazy, and he's gone utterly slack. 

John comes.

It's a dizzying orgasm, the kind that leaves him feeling hollow and wrung-out in its wake. He pulls out of Sherlock and then leans forward to wipe the sweat-soaked curls off his brow.

"You still with me, love? That what you wanted?"

"Yes, John. Oh, God yes."

"Good. Good." John leans forward and presses a quick kiss to the corner of Sherlock's lips.

He grabs more of the dish towels off the coffee table and makes a hasty effort to clean them both up, but after a few swipes he decides he can't be arsed. He ties his dressing gown closed around himself and curls up next to a spent Sherlock, finally letting sleep overtake him.

The sofa in the sitting room is fantastic for many things. It is excellent for lounging about on lazy Saturdays, perfect for when they are entertaining guests, and downright dangerously comfortable if one was sifting through tedious casework at 3am. But despite its many charms, the one thing it is not fantastic for is sleeping on. Something about the particular angle of the armrests always managed to produce the most agonizing neck pain John has ever experienced, and today is no exception. He wakes approximately an hour later, afternoon sun flooding the room, feeling like his neck has been raked over with hot coals.

Groaning, he pulls himself into a sitting position and looks around. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. Just then, he hears a noise from the kitchen.

Sherlock is leaning over the table in the centre of the kitchen, filing away microscope slides and muttering quietly to himself. He is wearing his dressing gown but clearly hasn't bothered to shower, and his hair is mussed and sticking up in every direction, making him look every bit the mad scientist. John walks up behind him and wraps his arms around him, pressing a kiss to his top vertebrae.

"Hello there."

Sherlock huffs. "Hello. May I help you?"

"Depends," says John non-committally, stepping back and putting some distance between them. "You tapping out?"

Sherlock stills. "No. Just thought you needed a break, old man."

"Old man, my arse."

"Or mine, more like."

John can't hold back a laugh, and Sherlock turns to grin at him.

"So what did you have in mind?"

John pulls himself to attention and puts on his Captain voice, the one he knows Sherlock loves (despite his desperate attempts to hide it--he'd have to be blind to miss the way the shiver travels down Sherlock's spine the second he uses it).

"I'd like you to move your microscope and slides over to the counter."

Sherlock does so with deliberate haste.

"Lovely. Now, turn and face the table. Bend over, that's good, just like that. Now, I'd like you to keep your arms here." He takes Sherlock's hands one by one and stretches them over his head, so that he's holding the two far corners of the table, bent at the waist, his head and chest against the table.

"Now, I'm not going to restrain you. I want you to keep your arms there because I want them to be there. It will please me to see you do that. Will you do that for me?"

"Yes, John."

"Lovely." And with that, John lifts Sherlock's dressing gown.

He's not wearing any pants (as if he ever does, except under duress), and John feels his breath catch in his throat at the sight of Sherlock's perfect arse. It never fails to turn him on. Never did, God, not even back before they started doing this--Sherlock's arse was the subject of many a shameful wank in the shower during their first few months of living together. Sometimes John still can't believe he's had the privilege of becoming so...intimately acquainted with it. He remembers the night he took Sherlock's virginity, how hot and tight he'd been, how absolutely--

Oh, bloody _hell,_ he was getting completely sidetracked. Now was not the time for reminiscing, not when he had Sherlock bent over and practically begging for it. Jesus.

John turns and fetches the lube from the hiding place behind the olive oil, and pours some onto his fingers. 

He parts Sherlock's cheeks. He's getting messy, a slick of lube and come visible at his entrance and gathered in his crack, and the sight of it makes John's cock jump in anticipation. For posterity, he presses in with a bit more lube and then slicks himself up and presses his cock inside.

He goes slowly, this time. Agonizingly slowly. He takes the time to feel every bump and ridge as he bottoms out inside, and then delights in the delicious friction as he draws out. 

Sherlock is completely relaxed beneath him. His hands stay at the corners of the table where John placed them, and his breathing is slow and steady. His eyes are closed as he sighs in bliss. 

John doesn't angle for his prostate. Instead, he lets the slow burn overtake him. He fucks Sherlock like this for a long, _long time,_ unhurried and deep--after a while the minutes seem to blend together into a total absence of time, and Sherlock begins issuing high, lovely sighs, hovering on the edge of _too much_ and _not enough,_ conflicted whether to beg for more or beg for it to stop altogether. John gives him neither; he just continues to penetrate him at the same slow, steady pace, making Sherlock feel him completely, and surrender himself to the sensation.

John doesn't relent. He doesn't give over to his primal instinct to speed up and give in. He draws it out, makes it last, keeps himself and Sherlock suspended in frozen animation, ebbing and flowing, bending but refusing to let them break, until finally, after what feels like an eternity, he can't fight it anymore.

John's fourth orgasm doesn't have the blinding intensity of the first three. It's a slow, shimmering shiver of a thing, that creeps up from the base of his spine and then makes its way to his cock. The pleasure simply intensifies ever so slightly, and he's hardly aware that he's coming at all, except he can feel the spreading wetness of his release as it happens. It seems to go on forever--he keeps slowly thrusting through it and expecting each thrust to be the last and that his orgasm will stop, but it doesn't, he's strung out on a wire that just won't break, and he keeps emptying himself more and more, surely it will end soon, but _God..._

Finally, it dies down. John's aware that he must have been moaning obscenely, because the kitchen is suddenly startlingly quiet, and Sherlock certainly hadn't been making any noise.

He bends and kisses Sherlock's spine between his shoulder blades, and then pulls out. He draws his dressing gown closed around himself, then steps around the table, pulls out one of the chairs, and sits down.

Sherlock issues a whimper from where he's still bent over the table. His hands haven't moved.

"Stand up."

Sherlock does. He's flushed and covered in sweat and his pupils are so dilated his eyes seem black. He looks uncomfortably hard. 

"Take off your dressing gown." Sherlock strips.

"Hand." John squeezes some lube into Sherlock's upturned palm.

"I want you to get yourself off."

"...Here?" Sherlock seems perplexed, caught completely off-guard. He's stark naked standing in the middle the kitchen, and John is lounging at the table in his dressing gown looking utterly unimpressed.

"Unless you'd rather not."

"No, no, I do, I'll..." and with that, Sherlock takes his own cock in his hand and begins to stroke.

It's erotic beyond any fantasy John would ever have allowed himself to dream. He leans back casually in the chair and fixes an expression of polite boredom on his face as he watches Sherlock jerk himself, bare and exposed in the harsh light from the fixture above the table. It's a shocking, devastatingly gorgeous display of vulnerability.

Sherlock is watching him, but then can't seem to stand the embarrassment anymore and closes his eyes and lets out a low grunt. He's blushing, a beautiful flush spreading from his chest up his neck and onto his impossibly high cheekbones.

His hand moves faster, his muscles tightening with the sensation. "John." His voice sounds shaky and a little lost. He doesn't open his eyes.

John doesn't reply. Sherlock continues to jerk himself, but John can see he's beginning to struggle. His arse is clenching and he's bouncing up onto his tiptoes with each thrust, and slow trickles of sweat are beginning to make their way down his brow. But still, John wants him to work harder for it.

Sherlock gasps and makes a sound halfway between a plea and an accusation. His hand moves faster over himself, but the way his jaw is clenching reveals his frustration.

John forces himself to remain impassive. He focuses on the beautiful cluster of hickeys that have bloomed over Sherlock's neck from their encounter on the sofa. They're deep purple and beautiful and he won't be able to go out in public without a scarf for three days, _at least--_

"John. _John._ " Sherlock's entire body has begun to shake, and he's gone from looking completely aroused to slightly sick, eyes still shut but mouth turned down in a grimace.

John's pushed him far enough. He responds quickly.

"Yes, Sherlock. Just like that. Show me."

"John..."

"I'm watching you. I see you. So good for me. So beautiful."

_"John."_

Sherlock is lost somewhere inside his head, and John is utterly consumed with the vision before him. Sherlock's body is taught from head to toe, brow furrowed in concentration, his forearm flexed with the effort, his cock purpling and shiny with precome. 

"John!" Sherlock cries out through gritted teeth, almost pitiful in his desperation.

"Come. Now."

Sherlock does, all over the kitchen floor, eyes screwed shut, a shout escaping from his lips as his hand works himself through aftershock upon aftershock.

When the last of it has died down, he opens his eyes. He looks completely adrift. 

John's on his feet in a moment, picking up Sherlock's dressing gown and wrapping it around him, peppering his face with kisses.

"That was so perfect, Sherlock, exactly what I wanted, Christ, you're incredible, fantastic..."

Sherlock's shoulders slump and he nearly drops to his knees, but John catches him.

"Come on. We need to get in bed."

"Bed?"

"We're both wrecked. Let's go."

"But the floor," Sherlock slurs.

"I will mark this down as the first, last, and only time you ever expressed a concern about leaving a mess in the kitchen. I'll take care of it later. Come on. Bed. Now."

He somehow manages to shepherd Sherlock down the hall and toss him in bed, and then crawls in after him. He doesn't remember falling back asleep.

It's an hour and a half later when John opens his eyes.

He's curled up spooning Sherlock, who is still dozing peacefully. John looks at his face and monitors his eyes movement, and concludes that he's not yet entered his post-case sleep.

Sherlock's post-case sleep is a deep, dreamless sleep of the dead that he falls into every time he's run himself ragged on a particularly challenging case. He'll retreat into bed for 14 hours straight, not even waking to drink water or use the loo. The first few times he'd done it, it had scared John half to death--as a doctor, he'd never really seen such a thing. Of course, he'd never seen a human subsist on nicotine patches and adrenaline and zero sleep for four days in a row before, either, so it wasn't a complete anomaly.

By now he was used to it--he'd come to expect for it, and plan around it, making sure he wasn't relying on Sherlock to care for Rosie in the hours directly after a case (except in extreme emergencies), and he'd stopped worrying that Rosie's cries would disturb Sherlock's recharging during that period (Sherlock could sleep through a nuclear apocalypse, of that he was fairly certain).

But today, Sherlock's not quite there yet. His eyelids are fluttering and his breathing is still relatively shallow. He'll be awake soon.

He pulls Sherlock closer to him. John is hardening again, which should surprise him--for a man of his age, today had been a marathon for the books--but something about Sherlock seemed to bring out a primal urge in him that defied all laws of science. Gently, he begins to thrust against Sherlock's arse.

Sherlock murmurs something unintelligible, and then a smile creeps across his face. He doesn't open his eyes, but he does arch his back, pressing himself against John's erection. He moans, low and deep in his chest.

John smiles and pulls Sherlock's top leg up so that his foot is planted on the mattress, giving John easier access. He parts Sherlock's cheeks, and presses his cock inside. Sherlock moans again, but presses back, taking John all the way in, the lube and come from their previous encounters easing the way.

Once he's fully seated, John doesn't start fucking Sherlock properly. He makes shallow, light thrusts, and instead focuses on kissing Sherlock. He presses his lips against his shoulder, laves reverent kisses onto the hickeys on his neck, takes the time to nose against the sensitive spot right behind Sherlock's ear, which makes Sherlock giggle and flinch. He runs his hands up Sherlock's chest until they reach his nipples, and he toys with them absently as his lips resume their ministrations on Sherlock's neck.

He doesn't rush this. He allows them to simply lie there and enjoy the moment--the exquisite intimacy of being joined, the familiarity with each others' bodies, the slow, steady bloom of arousal that has faded from a burning desire into a simmering want. Sherlock is warm and relaxed in his arms, body receiving John beautifully as he allows him to devote himself to adoring Sherlock as thoroughly and completely as he can.

_We can never be close enough,_ John thinks to himself as Sherlock turns his head to kiss John full on the lips, tongue probing against John's in a sweet surrender. _He is in my arms and I am inside him, but I will always want more, more--there can never be enough of this._

Sherlock's kisses become more heated, and he arches his back more deliberately, pulling John further out of him before pressing back in. John moves his hand down to Sherlock's cock; he's half hard, but he twitches with interest upon contact.

John disengages his mouth from Sherlock's and leans into his ear.

"Do you want to come again? It's okay if you just want to wind down from here."

"Mmm. Don't stop. Again, please."

"Okay. My hands? My mouth?"

"Cock, please."

"Sherlock, you must be getting sore. I think our previous record was four times in a day."

"That was years ago. Surely we've improved since then. I don't know about you, but I'm in rare form today. Ready to set a personal record."

"I...I mean, are you sure you don't want--"

"I know exactly what I want, John." Sherlock throws him a pointed look over his shoulder.

John sighs, but he knows when he's been beaten.

He'll have to get creative here. At this point, Sherlock is certainly oversensitive; it'll take more than simply a good fuck and a few quick pulls to get him back over the edge.

John pulls out and clambers out of bed back to the sitting room. He gathers up the two belts from earlier and then, in a moment of divine inspiration, the vibrator. He puts the two belts in his left hand, where Sherlock's gaze is sure to go first, and keeps the vibrator behind his back with his right, hidden from view. 

He re-enters the bedroom and, as predicted, Sherlock's eyes light up at the sight of the belts. Without John having to say a word, Sherlock flops himself onto his back in the centre of the bed and extends his arms up above his head towards the bedposts, inviting John to restrain him.

"My my, eager aren't we?" John tuts his tongue as he drops the belts onto Sherlock's chest. Sherlock grins as he stares at the belts, and John uses the momentary distraction to slip the vibrator under his pillow, then congratulates himself on his slight-of hand; Sherlock hadn't noticed a thing.

He gets to work binding Sherlock's wrists and securing the belts to the bedposts. By the time he's done, Sherlock is well-restrained, eyes bright and excited as they follow John's every move.

"Beautiful," John remarks, and kisses Sherlock deeply. Then he positions himself between Sherlock's legs and guides himself inside.

He sets a punishing pace, aiming firmly at Sherlock's prostate, knowing that at this point anything less will likely hardly register on Sherlock's pleasure radar. Propping himself up on one arm, John wraps his other hand around Sherlock's cock and strokes him in time with his thrusts. Sherlock keens and thrashes, clearly overstimulated, but John is relentless. Sherlock's gotten fully hard, but getting himself to come is clearly proving to be a challenge.

It's exquisite agony. John is hard as well, though he's also too oversensitive to come just from this. Sherlock is struggling openly now, hands gripping the belts that bind him to the bedposts and yanking with all his strength, conflicted between wanting to pull away and beg for more. He's issuing punched-out, gutteral cries, and tears are collecting at the corners of his eyes.

"Please, God. John, please. Please. I need. I need."

"Shhhh, shhh, I know, love, I know."

"No! John, you have to...understand..I need...I need...more...God, help..."

"I know, Sherlock, shhhh..."

"GOD, John! Please! Please! I'm...I'm..."

The tears spill over.

That's John's cue. In one fluid motion, he reaches beneath the pillow, finds the vibrator, turns it to the highest setting, and presses it, _hard,_ right against Sherlock's perineum, stimulating his prostate from the outside, all the while thrusting so that his cock strikes his prostate from the inside.

Sherlock goes utterly quiet. His eyes fly open wide, his mouth forms a perfect O, then he arches and comes in a long, silent ecstasy as his body bows off the bed. John congratulates himself on having he foresight to tie Sherlock up for this, because had he not, he'd undoubtedly have been unseated immediately. Instead, he fucks Sherlock relentlessly through it, keeping the pressure of the vibrator steady against him as he does so.

The silence is broken by an unearthly wail as Sherlock finally finishes and goes lax, spent. John pulls the vibrator away immediately and stops thrusting altogether, giving Sherlock a moment to collect himself.

Sherlock looks destroyed. He's slick with sweat and come, and he's shaking like he's in need of a shock blanket.

John leans down and kisses him, but Sherlock's mouth remains slack, chest heaving, as he struggles to suck down air.

John starts to pull out, but Sherlock's legs tighten around him.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock's tone is accusatory.

"Going to pull out and come on you. Problem?"

"Want it inside me."

"Sherlock, you are being a greedy brat. I've come four times already, three of which were in your arse. I'm oversensitive at this point, too. In order to come in you, I'd have to fuck you even harder than I just did. And you can lie all you want, but I know you're in pain at this point, and I'm not going to put you through that."

"But the _record."_

"What?"

"Our _record._ You've come in me three times in one night before, that first time we used the handcuffs. I remember. It was glorious. So today I want one more."

"Sherlock, no."

"Please, John." He makes his eyes wide and dewey. For someone currently tied to the bedposts with John's cock inside him, he looks shockingly innocent. _Please?"_

"For _fuck's_ sake, the things I do for you." John pulls out and grabs the lube and applies some more to his cock, at least wary of causing any tearing, then slides back in. 

Sherlock is grinning from ear to ear, the cat who got the cream. He flinches slightly as John penetrates him, and John catches his eye, suddenly serious.

"Okay. Remember, you have to tell me if this hurts."

"You've been sticking your cock in me for the better part of five hours, of course it's going to hurt."

John issues a playful slap to one of Sherlock's arsecheeks. "You know what I mean. You have to tell me if it hurts _more than you want it to,_ or _more than it should._ If you let yourself get injured, Sherlock, we're not doing this again. Do you understand?"

"Yes, John. I promise." Sherlock's eyes are wide and clear.

"Good." John lowers himself and kisses him gently. "Now, I'd hold on if I were you."

Sherlock's grip tightens around the restraints and he squeezes his eyes shut. John grabs the underside of Sherlock's thighs and forces them fully up to his chest, spreading him as wide as possible and bending him nearly in half.

They don't use this position much, since it puts them at complete odds. For John, it's the absolute fucking best feeling in the world: it's the maximum stimulation and pressure on his cock that he can ever recall getting, so during a normal encounter, he comes far too quickly once he gets Sherlock in this position. For Sherlock, it's uncomfortable: John's missing his prostate entirely, John's body isn't pressing Sherlock's cock between them to stimulate it (and the position of Sherlock's legs prevents him from getting a good hand on himself to jerk himself off), and the curve of his spine makes it difficult to relax (which, John has noted, is probably what makes his arse clamp down around John's cock so deliciously in this position). It's a selfish position for John. But Sherlock had begged, and by God, John was going to take full advantage.

At first, he feels guilty. Sherlock is struggling against his bindings and issuing tiny, pained cries with each thrust, and his arse feels overwhelmingly hot and slick from overuse. But the closer John inspects him, the more he deduces: Sherlock's pupils are dilated so wide that his irises are nearly invisible. His mouth, while issuing sounds of distress, is curved up at the corners, disguising a smile. Though his arms are straining against the restraints, his legs are offering no resistance, allowing John to press him open, wide and vulnerable. He's extending his neck, exposing it to John, _preening_ under John's lustful gaze. He is _loving_ this.

John grins, and lets himself go. He pummels Sherlock, just this side of reckless, allowing himself to chase his own pleasure uninhibited. Sherlock is gorgeously pliant underneath him, taking everything John can give him, surrendering entirely.

And God, _this_ is why they do this. This perfect moment, each of them so in tune with the other, leading and following in this perfect dance. In these moments, the walls all crumble completely and they allow themselves to really, truly let go. They are perfect for one another. A matched set.

John pulls out entirely and Sherlock gasps at the shocking emptiness as John winks at him roguishly before pushing back in. Sherlock wails and arches again, and then it's three quick thrusts and John is there, emptying himself with deep, punctuated grunts, gripping Sherlock's thighs and pulling Sherlock brutally towards him to meet each thrust. Sherlock remains yielding and open beneath him, taking everything John gives him with high, breathy sighs. 

John's orgasm is strong and sharp, but just this side of painful; it's almost a relief when the last waves recede and he pulls out. He unbuckles the belts from around Sherlock's wrists, and quickly examines his hands for signs of decreased blood flow. Finding none, he moves down Sherlock's body, spreading his legs and gently parting his cheeks.

He'll be feeling it tomorrow, that's for sure, and likely for a few days after that. But there is no tearing--just a rather obscene amount of leaking semen, which causes a shiver of arousal to shoot down John's spine. He quickly shakes off.

He rolls Sherlock onto his side and curls up behind him once again. Sherlock sighs contentedly.

"Good?" Asks John.

"Perfect," murmurs Sherlock, and drifts off to sleep.

John wants nothing more than to join him, but it's after 2:00, and God help him, he said he'd pick up Rosie around 3:00.

He extracts himself from the bed and showers, then runs a hot bath and adds a few pumps of the eucalyptus oil that Sherlock so adores. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he pads to the bedroom and shakes a slumbering Sherlock.

"Wake up, sleepyhead."

"Mmmrph? No. Sleeping." Sherlock burrows further into the pillows.

"You can sleep soon. But first, you need a bath."

"No, I'm sleeping now."

"Sherlock, you need to get cleaned up, and I have to change the sheets."

"But _why?_ You never made me get cleaned up before sleeping when we did this before."

"Well, back then there was nothing to keep us from behaving like feral animals in heat. But now I've got to go pick up our daughter from her godmother's house in 20 minutes. And in order to do that, I need to go be presentable and act like a decent, upstanding member of society. And the last thing I'm going to want after putting in all that effort is to return to a flat that looks and smells like a depraved sex den of sin."

"Depraved sex den of sin?" Sherlock opens one eye.

"You heard me."

"I did. I like it. Think I'll make it official and carve it above the door."

"Excellent, I'm sure Mrs. H will appreciate it. Now, up you get." He manages to roll Sherlock out of bed and steer him down the hall into the bath, pointedly making himself ignore the trickle of come that leaks down Sherlock's leg as he walks down the hall. He'll have to spend more time reflecting on that one later. Maybe someday in the future, they could--

_NOT NOW, WATSON. Time to focus._

John leaves Sherlock in the bath, then makes quick work of the sheets, tossing the dirty ones in the wash and putting on clean ones in record time. Next, he grabs a cloth and some cleaning solution and proceeds to have a go at the kitchen floor, living room floor, the seat of Sherlock's chair, the seat of his own chair (he's slightly flummoxed on how they managed to get come over there, since he has no recollection of either of them being in the chair during any portion of the day), and the sofa. He throws open the windows throughout the flat, sprays some Febreze, and takes a look around.

There's no denying they'd been up to _something_ unsavory all day. But on such a short timeline...

"Good as it gets," he mutters to no one in particular.

He goes to the bathroom and collects a pruned but clean Sherlock, and quickly towels him off and deposits him in bed. Then he grabs his keys and coat and dashes out the door.

As he walks over to Molly's place, he can't help but grin with the absurdity of it all. It's 3:30 on a Monday afternoon, and the streets are filled with ordinary people living their ordinary lives. John is filled with the desire to shout his good fortune from the rooftops: "OY! OY, EVERYONE! I'VE JUST SPENT THE ENTIRE DAY SHAGGING THE MOST GORGEOUS, COMPLETELY UNATTAINABLE MAN IN THE WORLD, WE BOTH CAME FIVE TIMES, AND HE TREATS ME LIKE A VERIFIABLE SEX GOD. I MADE HIM BEG FOR MERCY. TWICE." He giggles at the thought.

But instead, he shoves his hands deeper in his pockets, and tries to wipe the smug look off his face. It's not decent, he thinks with a grin. 

He disappears into the afternoon crowd.


End file.
